"So easily..."
Shane made an "I am a genius" expression: "Can't help it, making money is as simple as breathing for me."
"Although I really fcking hate to admit it..."
Fiona sighed, "But Shane, maybe you really have a talent for this."
"Or rather, that damn 'channel' of yours really seems like compensation God threw down after remembering our family at the last minute."
Fiona fell silent for a few more seconds, reorganized the counted money, and stuffed it back into Shane's hand.
"Alright."
"I promise you, I'll go take a look, go help."
"But—"
She leaned forward, saying word by word:
"I want to make it clear first, Shane Gallagher."
"If I go with you and find anything wrong with this business—even just one dollar touched by that damn 'powder'—"
"I swear, I will immediately throw all this money, along with your pots and your stall, into the Chicago River! Do you understand?"
Shane raised three fingers with a resolute expression. "I swear, Fiona. Every penny is clean, earned from selling food and coffee."
Fiona breathed a sigh of relief.
"Fine."
She had agreed to Shane's request.
"I can go out with you, but you have to give me a day first, because I have a few fixed part-time jobs to go to tomorrow."
Fiona began to explain:
"I can't just up and leave. I have to go say hello to those bosses, tell them there's a special situation at home recently, and I might not be able to make it in the mornings."
"I have to leave myself a way out, do you understand?"
"In case the 'magic' of your breakfast stall fails one day, or something goes wrong, I can at least go back shamelessly and beg them to switch back the schedule."
She looked at Shane with complex eyes.
"So, tomorrow you're still on your own."
"The day after tomorrow, I'll go with you. To see with my own eyes how your 'miracle' happens."
Shane knew Fiona had agreed, but years of struggle made her dare not bet everything.
She needed a day to arrange a retreat and buffer this decision.
"No problem." He nodded. "One day is enough for you to arrange. 5 a.m. the day after tomorrow, I need a helper."
"5 a.m..."
Fiona groaned, tilting her head back. She could already imagine the pain of being woken up by an alarm clock in the winter dawn.
But thinking of the thick feel of the banknotes just now, and then thinking of the memories of hard part-time jobs before, it seemed acceptable.
"Alright, put the money away, don't let me see it."
"Before you prove everything you said is true, looking at this money still fcking bothers me."
...
At 10 p.m., the Gallagher house hadn't completely quieted down. Lip and Ian were tinkering with something in the bedroom, and Debbie and Carl were still watching TV in the living room.
But Shane was already lying flat in bed.
After Fiona agreed to set up the stall together the day after tomorrow, he took advantage of some free time to change the lock on the basement door and reinforce the door frame.
Finally wrapped in two layers of sheet metal, this time even if Frank found a crowbar, it would take a tremendous effort to open it.
He also optimized the morning food preparation process before going to bed.
...
Ring ring ring—!
At 5 a.m., the alarm clock woke Shane from his sleep.
His alarm this time was half an hour earlier than yesterday, to give more preparation time for today.
This time it wasn't as hectic as yesterday.
The oven was preheated, the microwave time was set, the kettle was filled with water long ago, and portions of heated food were put in batches...
This time he prepared over 90 portions of each breakfast item, nearly half more than yesterday.
Coffee also filled four large buckets.
When he drove the van and parked in that small alley again, the time was exactly 6:40.
Shane moved the things down, went to yesterday's old spot, placed the things well, and lined up the insulated boxes.
"Hey, kid, looks like you prepared more than yesterday,"
The black vendor next to him grinned at him.
"Of course, learned my lesson," Shane smiled too, setting up the price board.
When the time turned to 7:30, the crowd reached boiling point.
Shane's stall was swallowed by the flow of people surging from all directions.
In his vision, there were now only swaying figures and hands reaching out.
"Burger! I want a burger combo!"
"Two coffees! Hurry up!"
"Any chicken rolls left? Quick, give me one!"
Voices exploded from front, back, left, and right simultaneously. The entire breakfast stall was now a chaotic mess.
This was the Monday morning rush in Chicago; the flow of people was even more turbulent than yesterday!
At this time, Shane's ears had filtered all noises into commands.
His hands were like two independent production lines:
The left hand grabbed food precisely like a mechanical claw—sandwiches stuffed into paper bags, burgers boxed, chicken rolls rolled into greaseproof paper; the right hand shuttled between coffee buckets and paper cups, coffee pouring out stream by stream.
The line snaked from the stall all the way to the alley entrance, and was still slowly lengthening backward.
Several men in suits kept raising their wrists to check their watches. Two younger women tried to squeeze in from the side but were roared at by an auntie behind them:
"Queue up! Can't you see everyone is waiting?!"
Some began to sigh, some complained about bus times, some shouted into their phones "Will be there in five minutes," and the whole line started to get a bit restless.
But this good and cheap breakfast made them reluctant to move their feet.
Those at the end of the line following the trend (they simply didn't know what was being sold) were also unwilling to leave. They felt that a breakfast worth such a long line must be good.
Shane's body coped with this relatively easily. For him, this intensity was at most an extended friendly training session.
What was really tight was the rhythm. His brain was now forced to overclock, multi-cores fully loaded.
He now had to keep an eye on the cash box with his peripheral vision, ensuring every bill was stuffed deep inside.
At the same time, the moment his fingers touched the bills, he automatically completed denomination recognition and change calculation.
Numbers kept popping out of Shane's mouth: "Three twenty—" "Four fifty—" "Six cents change—"
Meanwhile, he allocated 'memory' to guard against thieves. That kid in the baseball cap had already wandered around the edge of his vision for the third time.
The food in the insulated box was shrinking at a speed visible to the naked eye.
At 8:10, only one-third of the second bucket of coffee remained.
But the line showed no sign of shortening; instead, it squeezed tighter and tighter, and voices became more and more impatient:
"Don't push from behind! My cup is about to be knocked over!"
"Brother, hurry up, I'm really going to be late!"
"The one in front, stop chatting with your friend, order and go, okay?!"
The crowd's mood grew increasingly impatient, and more people tried to cut in line.
Shane had to speed up his speech, "Two combos! Plus two dollars! Next!"
Unfortunately, no matter how strong his body was, he couldn't split into two people. He could keep his hands and feet steady, but no matter how steady, he couldn't calm the growing irritability of the queue.
"Hey! Can you be faster! I'm going to be late for work!" A woman in uniform shouted shrilly.
"Already hurrying, ma'am—" Before Shane could finish, he was drowned out by a voice from the other side: "I want two combos! Pack separately!"
Just as the scene was getting slightly out of control.
A rough big hand pressed abruptly on the insulated box, and at the same time, a roar drowned out the customers' noise.
"Back off! Everyone back off! Give him some room to breathe!"
That black vendor had squeezed in from the crowd at some point, blocking the side of the stall directly.